I wrote my suicide note. Then I crumpled it up and wrote it again.

Three times I rewrote it. 
Then I cut. Deep. I watched my blood flow with complete serenity. 
That wouldn’t kill me, but the collection of pills by my bed surely would. This time I had more than enough. I wouldn’t fail this time. 
This is it. 
Then I remembered her face. That look of pure terror she wore as she died. As I watched her kill herself. Can I really do this?